MATERNAL DIPLOMACY.
“You had better send the children off to play, and never mind if
everything is cold. It’s my own fault; it’s the fault of circumstances.”
He seated himself at table as he spoke and helped himself to some of the
cold bacon, which was not appetizing; nor had he much appetite. His face
was full of care as he swallowed his cup of tea, keeping an eye uneasily
upon the children as they were gradually coaxed and led and pushed away.
When the door closed upon the last of them there was still a moment of
silence. Sir Edward trifled with his cold bacon, he crumbled his roll,
he swallowed his tea in large abstract gulps; but said nothing, his mind
being so full, yet so confused and out of gear. And it was not till his
wife repeated her question, this time with a tone of anxiety, that he
replied,
“What is it? It’s something that has taken me all aback, as you see.
It’s--something about a woman.”
“Something about a woman!” she repeated with the utmost astonishment;
but had he said “something about a cabbage,” Lady Penton could not have
been less alarmed.
“Living at old Crockford’s,” he went on. “I don’t understand the story.
The old man talked and talked, and Walter--”
“What has Walter to do with it, Edward? He has gone out without any
breakfast. Have you sent him to see after anything? Where has he gone?”
“Gone! is he gone? Why, he’s gone to _her_, I suppose; that’s the
amusing thing. He says ‘there’s things one man doesn’t tell to another;’
one man!--that’s how Wat speaks to me, Annie.” He gave a laugh which was
far from joyful. “I think the boy’s gone off his head.”
“Wat says--I don’t know what you mean, Edward.”
“No more do I; it’s past understanding. It’s the sort of thing people
talk of, but I never thought it would come in our way. It’s an
entanglement with some girl in the village. Don’t you know what that
means?”
“Edward!” cried the mother; and a flash of color like a flame passed
over her face. She was confounded, and unable to make any comment even
in her thoughts.
“You can’t take it in, and I don’t wonder; neither can I, that know more
of the world than you can do. Our Wat, that has never seemed anything
but a school-boy! Why, Horry will be saying presently, ‘There are some
things that one man doesn’t tell to--’ I don’t know what the world is
coming to,” he cried, sharply. When Sir Edward himself was taken by
surprise he felt by instinct that something sudden and unexpected must
have occurred to the world.
Lady Penton was perhaps still more taken by surprise than her husband.
But she did not make any observations against the world. The sudden
flush faded from her face as she sat opposite to him, her astonished
eyes still fixed upon him, her hands crossed in her lap. But a whole
panorama instantly revealed itself before her mind. How could she have
been so blind? Walter had been absent continually, whenever he could get
an opportunity of stealing away. The reading in the evening, and a
hundred little kindly offices which he had been in the habit of
performing for his sisters, and with them, had all dropped, as she
suddenly perceived. For weeks past he had been with them very little,
taking little interest in the small family events, abstracted and
dreamy, wrapped in a world of his own. She saw it all now as by a sudden
flash of enlightenment. “Some things a man doesn’t tell to another
man”--oh, no, not even to another woman, not to his mother! How strange,
bewildering, full of confusion, and yet somehow how natural! This was
not her husband’s point of view. To him it was monstrous, a thing that
never used to happen, an instance of the decay and degradation of the
world. Lady Penton, though the most innocent of women, did not feel
this. To her, with a curious burst of understanding, as if a new world
had opened at her feet, it seemed natural, something which she ought to
have expected, something that expanded and widened out her own world of
consciousness. Walter, then, her boy, loved somebody. It brought a
renewed, fainter flush to her cheek, and a wonderfully tender light to
her eyes. She thought of that first, before it occurred to her to think
(all being the work of a moment) who it was who had opened this new
chapter in her boy’s life, and made Walter a man, the equal of his
father. Oh, that he should have become the equal of his father, a man,
loving, drawing to himself the life of another, he who was only a boy!
This wonder, though it might have an acute touch in it, had also a
curious sweetness. For Lady Penton was not the hungering jealous mother
of one child, but the soft expansive parent of many, and never had shut
herself up in the hope of retaining them altogether for her own.
“It is very strange,” she said, after a pause, “it takes a good time to
accustom one’s self to such an idea” (which was not the case, for she
had done it in the flash of a moment). “It would be quite nice--and
agreeable,” she added, with some timidity, “if it was a--right person;
but did you say, Edward--_what_ did you say?”
“Nice!” he cried, with an explosion like thunder, or so it seemed to his
wife’s ears, a little nervous with all that had happened. “You can’t
have listened to what I have been saying. I told you plainly enough. A
girl that has been living at old Crockford’s, a girl out of the
village--no, worse, much worse, sent down from London, to be out of some
one’s way--”
Lady Penton had sprung to her feet, and came toward him with her hands
clasped, as if praying for mercy. “Oh! Edward, no, no, no; don’t say all
that, Edward,” she cried.
“What am I to say? It’s all true so far as I know. You can ask Martha
about her. Perhaps that’s the best way; trust one woman to tell you the
worst that’s to be said of another. Yes, I think on the whole that’s the
best way. Have her up and let us hear--”
“What!” said Lady Penton, “call up Martha, and question her about a
thing that Walter’s mixed up in? let her know that we are in trouble
about our boy? make her talk about--about that sort of thing--before
_you_? I don’t know what sort of a woman you take me for, Edward. At all
events, that is not what you would ever get me to do.”
He stared at her, only partially understanding--perhaps indeed not
understanding at all, but feeling an obstacle vaguely shape itself in
his path. “Annie,” he said, “there’s no room for sentiment here;
whatever the girl is, she’s not a person that should ever have come in
Walter’s way.”
Upon which his mother, without any warning, began suddenly to cry, a
thing which was still more confusing to her husband; exclaiming by
intervals, “Oh! my Wat!” “Oh! my poor boy! What did you say to him? You
must have been harsh, Edward; oh, you must have been harsh; and to think
he should have rushed out without any breakfast!” Lady Penton sobbed and
cried.
It was not very long, however, before the mistress of the house,
returning to the routine of domestic matters and with no trace of tears
about her, though there was a new and unaccustomed look of anxiety in
her eyes, found Martha in the pantry, where she was cleaning the silver,
and lingered to give her a few orders, especially in respect to the
plate. Lady Penton pointed out to her that she was using too much
plate-powder, that she was not sufficiently careful with the chasings
and the raised silver of the edges, with various other important pieces
of advice, which Martha took with some courtesies but not much
satisfaction. Lady Penton then made several remarks about the crystal
which it would be impertinent to quote; and then she smoothed matters by
asking Martha how her mother was. “I have not seen her for some time; I
suppose she doesn’t go out in this cold weather, which is good for no
one,” said Lady Penton.
“Oh, my lady, there’s worse things than the bad weather,” cried Martha.
She was her father’s child, and apt, like him, to moralize.
“That is very true: but the bad weather is at the bottom of a great deal
of rheumatism and bronchitis as well as many other things.”
“Yes, my lady, but there’s things as you can’t have the doctor to, and
them’s the worst of all.”
“I hope none of your brothers are a trouble to her, Martha; I thought
they were all doing so well?”
“Oh, it ain’t none of the boys, my lady. It’s one as is nothing to us,
not a blood relation at all. Father was telling master--or at least he
come up a purpose to tell master, but I begged him not,” said the young
woman, rubbing with redoubled energy. “I said, ‘father, what’s the
good?’”
“You are very right there, Martha; Sir Edward is only annoyed with
complaints from the village; he can’t do anything. It is much better in
such a case to come to me.”
“Yes, my lady; I didn’t want them to trouble you neither. I told ’em her
ladyship had a deal to think of. You see, my lady, mother’s deaf, and
things might go on--oh, they might go on to any length afore she’d
hear.”
“I know she is deaf, poor thing,” Lady Penton said.
“That was why I didn’t want her to take a lodger at all, my lady. But
Emmy’s not a lodger after all. She’s a kind of relation. She’s Uncle
Sam’s wife’s daughter, and she didn’t look like one as would give
trouble. She’s just as nice spoken as any one could be, and said she was
to help mother; and so she does, and always kind. Whatever father says
she’s always been kind--and that handy, turning an old gown to look like
new, and telling you how things is worn, and all what you can see in the
shops, and as good-natured with it all--”
“Of whom are you speaking, Martha? Emmy, did you say? who is Emmy? I
have never heard of her before.”
“She’s the young woman, my lady; oh! she’s the one--she’s the young
person, she’s--it was her as father came to speak of, and wouldn’t hold
his tongue or listen to me.”
“What is there to say about her? Sir Edward, I am afraid, did not
understand. He has a great many things to think of. It would have been
much better if your father had come to me. Who is she, and what has she
done?”
Lady Penton spoke with a calm and composure that was almost too
complete; but Martha was absorbed in her own distress and suspected
nothing of this.
“Please, my lady,” she cried, with a courtesy, “she have done nothing.
She’s dreadful taking, that’s all. When she gets talking, you could just
stop there forever. It’s a great waste of time when you’ve a deal to do,
but it ain’t no fault of hers. She makes you laugh, and she makes you
cry, and though she don’t give herself no airs, she can talk as nice as
any of the quality, as if she was every bit a lady--and the next moment
the same as mother or like me.”
“She must be very clever,” said Lady Penton. “Is she pretty, too?”
“I don’t know as I should have taken no notice of her looks but for
other folks a-talking of them,” said Martha, “I don’t know as I sees her
any different from other folks; but as for good nature and making things
pleasant, there ain’t none like her high nor low.”
“And what is she doing here? and why did your father come to Sir Edward
about her?” said Lady Penton, in her magisterial calm.
“Oh, my lady, you’ll not be pleased; I’d rather not tell you. When
father does notice a thing he’s _that_ suspicious! I’d rather not--oh,
I’d rather not!”
“This is nonsense, Martha--you had much better tell me. What has this
girl been doing that Sir Edward ought to know?”
Martha twisted her fingers together in overwhelming embarrassment.
“Oh, my lady, don’t ask me! I could not bear to tell you--and you’d not
be pleased.”
“What have I to do with it, my good girl?” said Walter’s mother, as
steadily as if she had been made of marble; and then she added, “but
after hearing so much I must know. You had better tell me. I may perhaps
be of use to her, poor thing!”
“Oh, my lady, Sir Edward’ll tell you. Oh, what have I got to do pushing
into it! Oh, if you’re that kind, my lady, and not angry!” Here Martha
paused, and took a supreme resolution. “It’s all father’s doing, though
I say it as shouldn’t. He thinks as Mr. Walter--oh, my lady, Mr.
Walter’s like your ladyship--he’s that civil and kind!”
“I am glad you think so, Martha. Gentlemen are very different from us;
they don’t think of things that come into every woman’s mind. I shall be
angry, indeed, if you keep me standing asking questions. What has all
this to do with my son?”
“It’s all father’s ways of thinking. There’s nothing in it--not a thing
to talk about. It’s just this--as Mr. Walter has seen Emmy a time or two
at the cottage door. And he’s said a civil word. And Emmy is one as
likes to talk to gentlefolks, being more like them in herself than the
likes of us. And so--and so--father’s taken things into his head--as he
did, my lady,” cried Martha, with a blush and a sudden change of tone,
“about John Baker and me.”
“About John Baker and you?”
“Yes, my lady,” cried Martha, very red; “and there’s no more truth in it
the one nor the other. Can’t a girl say a word but it’s brought up
against her, like as it was a sin? or give a civil answer but it’s said
as she’s keeping company? It ain’t neither just nor right. It’s as
unkind as can be. It’s just miserable livin’ where there’s naught but
folks suspecting of you all round.”
“Martha, is that how your father treated John Baker and you? I think
you’re hard upon your father. He behaved very well about that, and you
know you were yourself to blame. This that you tell me is all nonsense,
to be sure. I will speak to Mr. Walter.” She paused a little, and then
asked, “This Emmy that you tell me of--is she a nice girl?”
“Oh, yes, my lady.”
“Is she one that gives a civil answer, as you say, whoever talks to
her?”
“Oh, yes, my lady.”
“Not particularly to young men?”
“Oh, no, my lady,” said Martha, with vehemence, her countenance flaming
red, like the afternoon sun.
“If that is all true,” said Lady Penton, “you may be sure she shall have
a friend in me. But I hope it is all true.”
“As sure as--oh, as sure as the catechism or the prayer-book! Oh, my
lady, as sure as I’m speaking; and I wouldn’t deceive your ladyship--no,
I wouldn’t deceive you, not for nothing in the world!”
“Except in respect to John Baker,” said Lady Penton, with a smile; at
which Martha burst out crying over the silver that she had been
cleaning, and made her plate-powder no better than a puddle of reddish
mud.
This led Lady Penton, to make a few more observations on the subject
with which she had begun the conversation; and then she went away. But
if Martha was left weeping her mistress did not carry a light heart out
of the pantry, where she had got so much information. The picture of the
village siren was not calculated to reassure a mother. She had thought
at first that Martha was an enemy, and ready to give the worst version
of the story; and then it had turned out that Martha herself was on the
side of the girl who had fascinated Walter. Had she fascinated Walter?
Was it possible--a girl at a cottage door--a girl who--gave a civil
answer? Lady Penton’s imagination rebelled against this description; it
rebelled still more at the comparison with John Baker, with whom Martha
herself had gone through a troublous episode. Walter Penton like John
Baker! She tried to smile, but her lips quivered a little. What was this
new thing that had fallen into the peaceful family all in a moment like
a bomb full of fire and trouble? She could not get rid of the foolish
picture--the girl at the cottage door, smiling on whosoever passed, with
her civil answer; and Walter--her Walter, her first-born, the heir of
Penton--Walter caught by that vulgar snare as he passed by! Had it been
a poor lady, the curate’s daughter, the immaculate governess of
romance--but the girl whose conversation was so captivating to Martha,
who described what things were worn, and all that you could see in the
shops--and then, with a smile at the cottage door, caught the unwary boy
to whom every girl was a thing to be respected. Martha’s little bubble
of tears in the pantry were nothing to the few salt drops that came to
her mistress’s eyes. But Lady Penton went afterward to the book-room and
told her husband that, so far as she could make out, old Crockford must
have made a mistake. “Martha gives a very good account of the girl,” she
said, “and Walter, no doubt, had only talked to her a little, meaning no
harm.”
“He would not have answered me as he did this morning if there had been
no harm,” said Sir Edward, shaking his head.
“You must have been harsh with him,” said his wife. “You must have
looked as if you believed Crockford, and not him.”
“I was not harsh; am I ever harsh?” cried the injured father.
“Edward, the boy darted out without any breakfast! How is he to go
through the day without any breakfast? Would he have done that if you
had not been harsh to him?” Lady Penton said.